


Saw it Coming

by datemate



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gay, M/M, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, it's so fucking gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 03:30:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datemate/pseuds/datemate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>some gay california boys slowly falling for each other</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saw it Coming

Rodrigue never thought it would come this far.

Rodrigue Sanchez lived down near the Venice Boardwalk. He owned a small 2-story art studio, the top floor of which served as a bedroom. There were two bathrooms, one upstairs and one downstairs, with the only kitchen downstairs. Despite it's seeming barrenness the place had seen more than it's share of love. There were canvases, painted and not, stacked against the walls, there were blocks of clay and soft stone, carpenter's tools and painter's tools. The floor was splattered with paint that had stained the concrete where it landed and was scattered with small chips of wood and marble. 

Rodrigue groaned, got up, opened the curtains, was hit square in the face with the sunrise, then closed them again. He wasn't an unattractive man, far from it. He was around 6'1 or 6'2--he never bothered to remember anymore--and decently built. He had a strong jawline and dark brown eyes. His hair was cut short and kinky from having been slept on. 

He threw on a flannel button-up shirt and walked downstairs in his underwear. A bachelor to the end. He blinked himself awake as he set up coffee on the small stove. The sunrise flooded in through the large glass windows, throwing splashes of color over the white walls and white canvases and ambiguous figures etched into white marble. After coffee he made toast and eggs and ate them out of the pan. He rinsed the pan, dumped it in the sink, and headed back upstairs. He put on some old painter's jeans, the denim barely even blue anymore it was so stained with paint. He brushed his teeth and made faces at himself in the mirror. He inspected the sideburns that were creeping down the sides of his jaw and the stubble that was beginning to take over his chin. He yawned and walked back downstairs. He threw on an apron, the string wearing thin around his waist and the pocket beginning to fall off from so many years of use. He set himself up on a stool next to one of the shapeless towers of stone and picked up a hammer and chisel. 

Late in the afternoon, Guy Margolis walked into a small art studio near the Venice Boardwalk. Guy stood around 5'4 and had long hair down to his mid-shoulder. He wore his hair mostly down, with one braid in the front with beads and feathers woven into it. He had brown eyes and wore an aviator jacket and goggles. He was petite with a pleasing figure, slender and supple. He could have been a dancer. 

He looked around at the studio, at the painted canvases leaning against the walls and the figures brought to life out of the blocks of stone. He didn't even notice the artist walking down the stairs, carrying a pair of pants and a flannel shirt covered in dust over his arm. The artist dropped the dusty clothes on the ground near a dusty apron that was folded on the floor and said,

"You're a little late to watch me work." 

Guy nearly jumped. So this was the man responsible for the studio full of art. He was good-looking... Quite good-looking. Guy digressed. He turned back to sculpture.

"That's alright. When do you open tomorrow?"

"10 am. It says on the sign outside."

"Ah. Yes, I guess it probably does."

Guy didn't move, he continued to look at the sculpture. It looked like a person, probably a man, with curly hair, bent over so that all Guy saw was the mat of his hair and the muscles in his shoulders, all a ghostly, milky white. 

"What is this piece?"

The artist seemed to be caught off guard by the question.

"I--I don't really know. It just sort of... came out like that, you know?"

Guy nodded, "Hm."

Was that a good 'hm' or a bad 'hm?' Rodrigue was again caught off-guard. He normally wasn't particularly concerned with what people thought of his work. This small man was interesting; he was small and effeminate, and wearing a large jacket so that one could just barely see the supple curves of his waist. His jeans hugged his hips like they were made just for the task and the necklaces he wore made tiny chiming sounds when he turned to look at Rodrigue once more. 

"If you don't mind, I think I will come back tomorrow."

He turned to leave and Rodrigue's eyes followed him. His hips swayed and Rodrigue listened to the tiny chimes of his necklaces. 

What a weird guy.

The next morning, Rodrigue got up, opened the curtains, closed them, threw on a shirt and headed downstairs. He made himself breakfast and ate it out of the pan. He brushed his teeth and put on another pair of jeans. He shook off the dusty apron from the previous day and picked up the hammer and chisel.

Around noon, Guy walked into the studio. He was carrying two drinks, one of which the straw was badly chewed on.

Rodrigue slipped off the stool to greet him. The small man handed him one of the drinks.

"I didn't know what kind of coffee you like. I hope this isn't too sweet for you."

Rodrigue looked at the cup. It seemed to be some kind of iced mocha. He set it down on the counter. Would the off-guard-catching never cease?

"Thank you."

"I never got your name."

The artist paused.

"Rodrigue."

Rodrigue waited for the small man to share his, resting his hands on the counter. The small man didn't reply.

"Hm."

Rodrigue looked around the room, then returned to his stool. He began to chip away at the stone man's pale arms, small chunks of marble and white dust falling to ground around him.

Guy sat down on the floor and watched him work, sipping at his drink through the chewed straw. There was little sound aside from the chipping of Rodrigue's tools and the occasional sloshing of Guy's drink. And when Guy was finished with his drink he set the cup down on the floor and continued to watch.

The sun had begun to set and Guy stood up. He dusted the white from his pants and jacket. Rodrigue turned to look at him, setting his tools down. Guy reached out and shook his hand.

"My name is Guy."

Then turned and left.

Rodrigue was left looking at the door where Guy had left. 

A very weird guy.

Rodrigue slipped off the apron, tossing it to the floor, and dusted himself. The small man--Guy had left his empty cup on the floor. Rodrigue picked it up and looked at it. The end of the straw was split and chewed on and it smelled like caramel. He went to set it down on the counter and realized he had forgotten his own drink. He picked it up and took a small sip. The ice in it had melted and the drink was watery, but it was still sweet and creamy. More of a dessert than coffee, Rodrigue mused, but it wasn't bad. 

Not at all.

He took the empty cup over to a stack of blank canvases and sat down. He set the empty cup on the ground next to him and dabbed a brush in a palette of paint, his drink in his other hand.

**Author's Note:**

> i've never actually posted my writing anywhere before  
> i guess if enough people say 'thumbs up' i'll try and write some more!


End file.
